Shadowgod

by Michael Cobley

  At least we can hope they will, he thought. We need more time…

  There were footsteps behind him and he looked round to see Tauric, alone and garbed in a long, mauve fur-collared cloak.

  “Greetings, majesty,” he said with a slight bow.

  “Archmage,” was Tauric's taciturn reply.

  Warily silent, Bardow watched as the young emperor came out onto the balcony and rested gloved hands on the wooden balustrade.

  After a moment, Bardow said, “ How is your metal arm, Majesty? I see that you're wearing a leather sleeve over it - does the cold affect it at all?”

  Tauric frowned and his left hand went to his right elbow. “Sometimes it aches at the join,” he said. “And I have to unstrap it for a short while - “ He gave Bardow a sharp look. “But it is only a minor discomfort, not unlike the everyday nuisances that any knight or soldier has to endure.”

  Bardow resisted the impulse to sigh heavily. When Yarram's officer had brought the news of the enemy's meeting offer, Tauric staged a dramatic confrontation with Bardow and Yasgur, while accompanied by about a dozen of his White Companions. He had demanded that he and some of his Companions be allowed to ride out with Yasgur to the rebuilt fort. It was his right as emperor, he insisted, to defy those who had brought death and violation to his realm. It was his duty, he went on, to see and know the faces of those who would eventually be brought to account for their vile deeds. All this was proclaimed passionately while his Companions provided a boisterous supporting chorus which quickly wore away Yasgur's already frayed patience. Voices were raised, which Bardow only subdued by persuading Yasgur to wait in the next chamber.

  Unfortunately, Tauric was a youth forced into the mould of a man, forced to adopt the outward seemingness of a man while still lacking the experience and pragmatic good sense that made an effective ruler. And as he regarded Tauric now, still brooding over that earlier humiliating blow to his pride and what he saw as his duty, Bardow braced himself for another outburst of anger and frustration. Yet the outburst never came. The young emperor turned his morose features away from Bardow to stare out over the white-blanketed lands beyond the city walls. The ringing of the stonemasons' hammers from within had ceased and a chill stillness held sway.

  “I feel useless,” Tauric murmured. “Useless and caged.”

  “I've felt that way for most of the last sixteen years,” Bardow said. “And I feel little different now, if truth be told.”

  Tauric looked shocked. “You? - useless? How could that be?”

  “Because we are weak and vulnerable, majesty. All that we have gained has been a consequence of divisions among the Shadowkings and the Earthmother's unforeseen manifestation.” The Archmage leaned on the balustrade. “Our goddess, however, seems to follow her own whim in these matters. Neither the appearance of Gorla and Keshada, nor Mazaret's capture, have provoked the slightest response from her. No visions in the temple, not a dream, not a whisper nor the vaguest omen. Meanwhile, our enemies carry their plans forward with deadly precision and the only things holding them back are the Crystal Eye and this precarious stratagem on which we've embarked.”

  Tauric swallowed, his expression full of dismay. “You make our situation sound desperate.”

  Bardow paused and reined in his thoughts, suddenly aware of how angry and unguarded he had been.

  “Desperate, yes,” he admitted. “But not hopeless. You are a living source of hope for this city and all the lands that we liberated. Strength comes from the knowledge that you are alive and well - it was your father's death combined with the destruction of the Rootpower that so quickly broke the Empire. If he had lived, events might have turned out differently.”

  Tauric looked back out at the wintry fields with burning, determined eyes. “I've been thinking about abdicating the throne,” he said evenly. “I would then be free to take up arms and play a part in the struggle.”

  Bardow regarded him a moment, suddenly fearful. “Alael would never accept the crown,” he said.

  “I know, and I know that I could never relinquish my responsibilities so easily. “ He looked down at his hands. “But if only there were some way for me….tell me, are you certain that the Rootpower is completely gone?”

  Bardow gave a hollow laugh. “I can assure you, majesty, that it is utterly extinguished.”

  Tauric clasped his hand. “I have heard it said that the Rootpower still exists, that only the gateway to it through the Fathertree has been closed to us. Could that be possible?”

  “A fanciful notion, your majesty, nothing more,” Bardow said, curious at this line of query. “There is no evidence that would support such an idea.” And where, I wonder, did you hear of it?

  Sighing, the young emperor ran his real fingers through his hair. “And thus no explanations,” he said “A great pity. I have such strange and uneasy dreams - sometimes, I am back in Oumetra, riding through deserted streets, searching for Alael and Lord Mazaret, but there's no-one there and the sun gradually turns black, plunging everything into night.” He turned to Bardow with anguished eyes. “Sometimes I am climbing a vast tree whose every trunk and branch is composed of the bodies of people, all hard and grey, yet I can feel their pain with every handhold as I climb and search, for what I'm not certain.”

  Bardow smiled faintly. “That one requires little interpretation, your majesty. Duty cannot be measured with rule or scale but it has a very real weight.”

  “Exactly, Archmage,” Tauric said, straightening. “I have responsibilities to shoulder and a duty to fulfill.” He stared out at the enemy's citadels. “In whatever way I can.”

  He turned to leave, pausing in the archway. “Would you inform me when Yasgur returns?”

  “Indeed I shall, majesty.”

  “And tell me, do any of the palace stewards own a big black dog?”

  “Not to my knowledge, sire,” Bardow said. “Why do you ask?”

  Tauric shrugged. “I've seen one prowling through the gardens these last few nights, and thought I saw it in the great hall early this morning.”

  Bardow shook his head. “I know that a couple of the coachmen and one of the ostlers have dogs, but they're all brown shorthairs from the same brood. But I shall make enquiries on this matter, majesty.”

  “My thanks, archmage. Till later.”

  And he was gone, leaving Bardow still wondering what Tauric meant by 'a duty to fufill'.

  * * *

  Upon a wooden platform behind a partly rebuilt wall, Atroc huddled in his skins against the knifing cold. Shivering beneath this cruel grey sky while waiting for Yasgur was, he thought, the duty for a younger man. About two hundred yards north of the ridge, ten riders from the direction of Gorla had camped on a wooded knoll near a fire-gutted farmhouse. He stared gloomily out at them but at this distance all he could tell was that all wore dark, hooded cloaks, and one held a large, draped banner braced against a stump. This, he knew, would be a covered battle standard of some sort. Brought to truce talks, it was nothing more than a gesture of arrogance by the side that believed itself certain of victory.

  He snorted. Then why are you not already in Besh-Darok, o children of fear? he thought. Or have your own fears become our allies?

  Beside him stood Yarram, the new Lord Commander of the knights of the Fathertree Order, as dour and unbending a warrior as any Atroc had encountered in his life. He knew that the man's grimness was in part due to the loss of Lord Regent Mazaret, but he could not resist testing that impassive exterior to see what lay beneath.

  “Have you always been a warrior, friend Yarram?” he said.

  The wiry, grey-haired knight glanced darkly at him. “Is this more of your impolite badgering, ser? Perhaps you should forage in someone else's thoughts.”

  Atroc shrugged. “Hmph. Impolite, eh? Nay, ser, curiosity goads me into asking such questions, the desire to know what twists and turns of fate have brought you to this cold and dangerous place.”

  “It is none of your business, ser.”
/>
  “This is so.”

  Yarram breathed in deeply and cleared his throat. “My family were originally from Sejeend and my mother and father were both weavers. I would have been one too, but my parents died in a loomhouse fire and I decided to join the imperial militia. ”

  “Ah, a weaver,” Atroc said. “A noble trade. Perhaps you could make some nice socks for my cold feet, eh?”

  A thin smile cracked Yarram's reserve. “Should we live through this, ser, I'll make you a damned shirt and trews. And what of you? - have you always been a seer?”

  “Always.”

  “Could you have ever been anything else, something productive perhaps?”

  Atroc smiled at the jibe, pleased by Yarram's table-turning. “From birth it was written on my skull that my eyes would see more than others - 'We sleep by the Door of Dreams/We hold to the old ways/Blood cast into fire puts fire in the blood'….” He nodded to himself, recalling the ancient words, then looked at a confused Yarram. “We are the blood, Yarram,” he said. “You and I and Bardow and Yasgur and our young emperor, everyone under our banners - we shall all soon be cast into the fire - ”

  He broke off as a commotion came from the other side of the half-made fort, the thud of horses hoofs drawing near. Yasgur had arrived.

  By the time Atroc and Yarram had descended from the crude parapet, Yasgur and his officers had dismounted and were entering the fort. The Lord Regent wore a long black cloak edged with bear fur, over a silvered breastplate chased with the tree-and-crown device of Besh-Darok. His curly black hair had been trimmed and oiled, and on his forehead was a bronze circlet adorned with a single blue stone.

  As he approached he looked Atroc.

  “So, are we in the fire yet, old one?”

  Atroc grinned. “Not yet, my prince, but the flames grow hot.”

  Yasgur smiled and as he turned to Yarram, a lookout shouted, “Ware riders!”

  “I want both of you by my side,” Yasgur said to Atroc and Yarram. “I may wish either or both of you to play a part - you will know when.”

  An open-fronted tent had been been rigged against one of the fort's original walls, and Atroc and Yarram exchanged a look as they followed the Lord Regent under its shelter. The opening faced along the length of the old smugglers' ridge and Atroc curled his lip in contempt as the ten hooded riders came into view, urging their mounts up the slope's long, narrow trail. Once up on the rise they drew to a halt some way along, four of them dismounting. One of these spoke to the standard bearer, then all four walked across the icy ground, faces still hidden by their cowls. At the tent three waited outside while the fourth, who was the tallest, stepped under the canopy and threw back his hood. Atroc gaped, and heard Yasgur take a swift intake of breath.

  Byrnak! - here? were his first thoughts. Then realisation struck. This was the man who had emerged from Gorla to confront Mazaret mere days ago…

  “I am named Azurech,” the man said to Yasgur. His black hair was long and braided, his teeth were even and stained red, and the white vapour of his breath fumed about him. “Once chieftain of the Whiteclaw clan, but now the voice of the Shadowking Byrnak. With his likeness I offer greetings and friendship to all who would pledge their allegiance to the Shadowkings. I also bring the promise of destruction and unrelenting slaughter to all who oppose us. Think on this with care.”

  “By what right do your masters invade this domain?” Yasgur said abruptly.

  “By the most ancient right of the Lord of Twilight who with his bride ruled all these lands and others in the dawn of the world, before the usurper came. But now a new crown shall rule and a new nobility shall know glory and the fruits of loyalty.”

  Yasgur glanced at Atroc who smiled and cleared his throat.

  “Whiteclaw clan, eh?” he said. “Weren't they settled in northern Honjir?”

  But Azurech ignored him. “Yasgur, I bear a message from your fellow chieftains, Welgarak and Gordag. They say - 'Why have you betrayed your people, Yasgur Firespear? Return to the Host, friend. Repudiate these worshippers of a dead god for it is not yet too late. The clans are waiting to rally to the son of Hegroun's banner and sweep away the past'.” Azurech smile was like a dagger aimed at Yasgur. “Do you have an answer?”

  “Only this - in the last battle for my city, the clans lost a great throng of warriors as well as many chieftains.” Yasgur stared back. “I don't believe that you have the army which can take those walls.”

  Azurech met the Lord Regent's gaze with open amusement.

  “Your ignorance is profound, Yasgur. The people of Yularia and Anghatan flock joyously to my masters' banners. Their armies swell by the day and shall soon be sufficient to darken all this countryside with their numbers.”

  “Then why, I wonder, were you buying slaves stolen from refugee camps in southern Khatris?” Atroc said. “Perhaps this flocking is not joyous, eh?”

  For the first time Azurech look at Atroc, who felt satisfaction at the fury that shone from those eyes.

  “I had hoped to confer with the Archmage Bardow,” he said. “I do not need to waste my time with a petty dowser.”

  “You honour me,” Atroc said. “I shall wear your contempt like a scar of honour.”

  The man with Byrnak's face turned back Yasgur. “We do not require your answer now. Take stock of your situation, ponder the consequences of your actions, and if by dawn tomorrow you agree to our demands, fly this from your topmost tower.”

  From within his grey robe he took a folded wad of cloth. A flick of the wrist and it unfurled into a large square banner of vivid green, its device a rayed golden sun impaled on an upturned black sword set. Carefully, Azurech hung the banner over a crook in the tent's central pole then turned to the three hooded figures still waiting outside.

  “If you will not listen to my words,” he said, beckoning two of them into the tent. “Then heed some more familiar voices.”

  Atroc steeled himself as two cowls were pushed back to reveal the faces of Ikarno Mazaret and the woman he had confronted at the gates of Gorla, the one named Suviel.

  They were only rivenshades of the original people, one captured and one dead, but knowing that did not make this sight any easier to bear. Their skin and hair were a chalky white and their eyes were pale grey, calm and unblinking. Their breath came in streams of vapour so thin it was as if they were themselves cold to the bone.

  “You should listen to him,” said the Suviel rivenshade. “Whatever weapons you have, be they sorcerous or iron and wood, they just will not be enough.”

  “It's true,” said the one with Mazaret's face. “I have been inside both of the citadels and seen the armies quartered there. Valour and skill would be of little use against such a host,”

  There was curious hollowness in their voices and as Atroc listened he understood the aim of this puppet show. Rather than trying to persuade, it was saying - 'Look - this is what we have done to your best and bravest. What hope is there for the rest of you?'

  “A great change is coming,” the Suviel rivenshade said.

  “All the realms will flow into one another,” said the Mazaret, “and from it will arise a world of enchantment and unsurpassable beauty.”

  “You could decide to be part of what is to come,” the Suviel said. “Or…”

  She shrugged and glanced at Azurech who nodded at her, smiling. An icy draught passed through the tent and as the rivenshades pulled their hoods back up, Azurech looked to Yasgur and the other with a malign satisfaction,. But before he could open his mouth, Yasgur suddenly spoke.

  “You will not take Besh-Darok easily - every yard of ground, every building, every street will be watered with the blood of your troops should you come against us,” he said.

  “This we know,” Azurech said. “From our encompassing walls to the shoreline, these miles of fields and farmlands shall become a floodplain of death and havoc if we ride to the attack. But you can prevent that happening, Yasgur Firespear.”

  Turning, he stepped outs
ide and laid one hand on the shoulder of the fourth and thus far unhooded member of the group.

  “I leave you with this final argument,” he said, then he and the two rivenshades were walking away, returning to their horses, watched by every soldier and officer in the fort. The fourth person stood unmoving, cowled head slightly bowed, arms crossed with hands buried in long sleeves. Atroc frowned and approached the stranger who, he realised, was just visibly trembling.

  “Who are you?” he said warily, aware of Azurech and his companions, now remounted and trotting down the path from the ridge. Then Atroc noticed something about the silent stranger which made his skin prickle.

  “Has he said anything, old man?” said Yasgur, emerging from the tent with Yarram at his side.

  “Wait, my prince!” Atroc flung out one hand to the Lord Regent who halted abruptly. “There is black evil afoot here...”

  Everyone froze, still upon the ground, and every eye was fixed on Atroc as he reached out and pushed back the stranger's hood.

  It was a man, his head utterly hairless. He stared fearfully at something unseen and his scalp and face were beaded with perspiration. His head was quivering and Atroc watched the sweat trickle down from brow to jaw to chin, there forming droplets.

  “What is your name, ser?” Atroc said quietly. “Where are you from?”

  The man's head jerked up, burning eyes regarding Atroc.

  “Search….Domas said search for….Deathless….” The gaze drifted, as if seeing memories. “Caught me, though….no longer Qael….I am….I am….” Veins stood out on his skull as he drew a deep breath and bellowed, “Warblood!”

  One hand came out from the enveloping sleeves bearing a wickedly curved knife. Atroc cried out and lurched away, lost his footing and sprawled on the ground, yet the knife went up to the man's own throat. The cut was swift and unerring but it was not blood that gushed forth, but liquid, silver fire.